


The silences that echo

by sdlucly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt Stiles, Implied Slash, Kidnapping, M/M, Marking, No season three Alphas, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Scent Marking, Scenting, The Hale Pack - Freeform, post season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:21:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdlucly/pseuds/sdlucly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, nothing but the sound of his breath in his ears, the wind hitting his face. </p><p>He doesn't know how he's gotten here, but he knows that this is wrong. This whole place is wrong. It has to be wrong, something must have happened in between then and now, for the world around him to change so much. Because he can't believe he needs antipsychotics and he's seeing a psychiatrist two days a week. It can't all be hallucinations, because he remembers Scott being bitten and killing Peter and Derek being the Alpha and Isaac, Erica and Boyd. Only now none of that makes sense, and his dad says it's his medication and his mom says it'll get better soon. But it won't. It <i>can't.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [Teen Wolf Big Bang Challenge](http://teenwolf-bb.livejournal.com). It was supposed to be 15k and be a short good story, and then. Well. You know me, I can't write short to safe my life. 
> 
> I gotta thank [RaelynnMarie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RaelynnMarie/pseuds/RaelynnMarie/works), who's the amazing, talented, extraordinary artist that read my really screwed up summary and thought the fic had promise. You're amazing and even though we didn't have enough time to bug one another, we finally finished at the end. Yey us! The art is over [here](http://becausethatswhatido.tumblr.com/post/70154291683), though I gotta say, it's kinda spoilerish? Yeah, pretty much. So be careful! 
> 
> I could never thank [Schattentaenzerin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattentaenzerin/pseuds/Schattentaenzerin) enough. She's the amazing person that totally put up with me every single day I was writing this, without killing me in the process. I will forever love you.
> 
> Also gotta thank storydivagirl, who has known me for years and years, for the beta (or the promise of the beta!) though she then ended up having RL stuff that meant that okbutjusthisonce ended up doing the pinch beta for me. Ok, I love you so much babe! You betad it while on a plane! You're so freaking awesome!!!

_fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: magic exists_  
\- Stephen King. It.

 

 

Stiles can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, nothing but the sound of his breath in his ears, the wind hitting his face. His feet are bare as he runs, and he can feel the leaves and twigs scratching at his soles. He doesn't care. He can't care.

He can hear the footsteps of the people that are following. Hunters, has to be hunters because it doesn't sound like werewolves, and he knows that sound like his knows the beat of his heart.

He cuts hard to the right, turning at the end of one of the trees in the Preserve. Years ago he might have gotten lost before he even took ten steps in any given direction, but he's been running with werewolves, with Derek, who has known the Preserve better than the back of his hand since he was five. Derek, who showed him that there were always signs of where he was, in the middle of the forest, at any given time. He just had to look for them. They had made some of their own, the pack, just for the human team. 

Stiles can find them, marks made on bark or a small piece of cloth or plastic bag left in the top of trees. He knows where he's going and where he can lose them, where he can hide. It's just hunters, so they won't be able to follow him through scent or the sound of his heartbeat, that's a huge plus.

He needs to take another left, and ten seconds from here, he should--

He falls face first into a ditch that's not supposed to be there, that can't be there. He turns his body around, trying to cushion his fall as he goes down and down. He hits the end of the ditch on his side, and he can feel his left arm twist wrongly, pull at his shoulder. He scratches the side of his left leg as well, deep and painful, and he bites on his lower lip to keep himself from screaming, not to give his position away.

He throws his head back, eyes shut tight against the pain, against the desire to cry out. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He can do this. He can do this. He can keep going, he can--

He hears them, getting closer and it's impossible, they don't know the terrain like he does, this ditch wasn't supposed to be here, he was supposed to-- Fuck!

"Stiles!"

How do they know his name? They can't, they shouldn't! He stands up but his leg hurts too much, and he falls to the side, his left arm pressed tightly to his chest. He tries to lay low, as low as he can, hoping against hope that maybe they won't see him, that maybe they won't notice him here.

"Stiles!"

He closes his eyes shut, curls his body inward as much as he can, and between one breath and the next, he knows no more.

* * *

His throat feels thick and cottony, his limbs sluggish and heavy. His head hurts. He groans from the back of his throat, hands curling into a fist. He wants to shield his eyes with his hand, and notices that he can't, because he's bound. His hands are bound to the... floor? No, it's too comfortable to be on the floor, and he'd known, because this wouldn't be the first time he'd happen to wake up bound to the freaking floor.

He tries curling his fingers again and at least he can do that much, so that goes into the plus column. He blinks again, tries not to move, not to let whoever has him know that he's--

"Stiles?"

\-- awake. Never mind that now. It's not like-- wait, what? That's his name, which they could know, but he could swear that was his father's voice. Which, of course, makes no freaking sense.

"Are you awake? Stiles?"

He blinks, and opens his eyes, carefully, slowly, and surprise of all surprise, it's actually his dad.

"Dad?"

His dad smiles, shaky and grateful, and in a blink Stiles can see his eyes are pink, their borders red, and he thinks his dad has been crying.

"Dad, what--?" He tries to sit up, to reach for him, because he has no idea what the hell is going on, when he notices that his hand are still very much bound. He blinks down at them, and realizes that he is on a bed, and that his hands are really strapped. To the freaking bed. "Dad, what the, what the hell?"

Stiles looks back up at his dad, and his dad only blinks again, his eyes still shining weirdly, wetly. He reaches out a hand to hold onto Stiles' bound right one, curl around it and hold it.

"It's for your own good."

What? _"What?"_

* * *

His dad, he tries to explain it to him, that his medication has had some side effects (which doesn't make sense because he's been taking the Adderall for years and he's never, what, lost time?), that his doctor was going to change the dosages, maybe even change the antipsychotics he had prescribed the last time they had an appointment--

Wait, what? Antipsychotics?

"Antipsychotics?" Stiles can't help but ask. Since when is he on antipsychotics? Since when has he needed them? That makes no sense.

His dad gives him a tight smile, more like a grimace, but he doesn't deny it.

Stiles looks around the room. Where the fuck is he? The walls are a bland peach color, and it's not until he notices the bedside table, the florescent lights that it all clicks in his brain. Holy shit, could he be any slower today? He's in a hospital. Psych ward? What the hell?

"Dad--?'

"It's okay, kid. I swear. They said... they said that it was the mixing of pills, that they'll fix it now."

Stiles frowns, can feel his mouth opening and closing, but no sound is coming out. What the hell, really, what the freaking hell in... "Fix what, exactly?"

His dad grimaces again, and that twist of his lips makes him look at least ten years older than he really is. 

"It was nothing. It was stupid. You must have fallen asleep in your room--"

Bedroom? Or does he have a room here, in the hospital? Holy fuck, man, what the hell?!

"--because when you woke you didn't know where you were, or who I was--"

What?

"-- and next thing I know you're running down the hallway and then down the stairs. You tripped on your way down, that's where you twisted your wrist, and cut your leg somehow."

It's only now that Stiles turns around, actually notices that his dad is right, that his left hand is held secure in a cast that goes all the way up to his forearm. He checks his leg, and though it's not in a cast, when he flexes it, he can feel the bandages around his upper leg. He tries his feet, but they are bound too, against the edge of the hospital bed.

"I had to call the paramedics, and they had to sedate you."

Sedate him? He's never had to be sedated! Why would he--? Oh. For his own protection, probably. God.

"They are just keeping you overnight, for observation. They said we could spring you out in the morning."

It makes no sense. It doesn't... he doesn't remember what his dad has been telling him. Any of it. He remembers... the last thing he remembers is the pack meeting, going to it and... running with the betas until he'd tripped over one stupid freaking twig and Isaac had to bump into him lest he'd meet the ground face first. It'd been late by then, and he'd called it a night. He'd gone back to his Jeep, he remembers that, and after that... what? He must have gotten to his house, to his bed. He'd been tired and he wanted to study, to... it was Sunday the next day but he had a History test on Monday and... 

That's it. That's all.

He's never been on medication other than the Adderall, nothing else. Not even after his mom had died, and man, he'd wanted to be on medication back then. So what? He lost, what, weeks? Months? It makes no sense. It can't...

"Stiles?"

He turns around, as much as he can actually turn, at least turning his face away from his dad. He's suddenly tired and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep.

"Stiles--?'

"I just... dad..."

His dad doesn't say anything, and he hopes his dad understands. By the silence, he does. He wants to sleep, and maybe when he wakes up, things will make more sense.

* * *

They start at the beginning, all over again. As many times as they have to, if there's even a slight chance of finding something they missed the last time, or the time before that. They follow the tracks out of the Preserve to the road. The scent is already stale, two days old, but it's enough to lead them to the Stilinski house, where the Jeep is missing. The second story window is opened and they climb inside, just Derek and Scott. The rest of the betas are sniffing around, seeing if they can find a trail, a scent, a trace, something, anything.

The room smells like Stiles, of course it does, but it's not a new scent. At least a day old. They think. Derek can't even be sure, the room is so heavy with the smell of oranges, the sense of rush that has a smell, and pines and earth. But there are no new smelly clothes, no new sweat permeating the air.

Derek takes in a long breath, can differentiate the scent of a teenage boy, the medication Stiles takes, the caffeine that always lingers around him, the soap and shampoo he uses. Then there are the scents that make up the soul of Stiles, like the smell of sarcasm and sharp intelligence, the smell of the ink on Stiles' fingers and neck where he rubs it as he studies, the happiness that bursts through in particular moments. Things that people say don't have a scent, but that wolves agree do. 

Then there's the Jeep, missing from its usual parking spot, so either he didn't make it home, or he did and then... what? Left in the middle of the night, or the next morning? 

Scott turns around, glares at Derek like this is his fault. Maybe it is. It probably is. "He hasn't been here since Saturday, has he?"

Derek doesn't know, not for sure. If he didn't make it here, then Stiles was probably taken between leaving the Preserve and Sunday morning. If he made it here. Well, that's even worse, and they have nowhere else to go. Derek can feel the wolf biting and snarling in the confines of his mind, wanting nothing more than to claw at the thing that had dared to take what belongs to it.

Derek closes his eyes, takes in a shaky breath. It's Monday afternoon. Stiles didn't go to class. Nobody has seen Stiles since the pack meeting on Saturday afternoon.

* * *

When he wakes up, things don't make any more sense. Not even a little bit. Not even close. Not even a smidge.

Stiles' staying in the hospital for observation, his dad says, because the doctor (psychiatrist, of course, who else) wants to make sure that the new dosages don't mess around with his time and depth perception, whatever the hell that is. His usual therapist isn't working today (a therapist he doesn't even know, has never even met, but, whatever), but they've talked (the psychiatrist and the therapist) about maybe changing one of his medications, but both of them are still on the fence.

That's what his dad tells him.

Also, he's been seeing the therapist for almost six months now, from what his dad let slipped up. Six months. He'd thought he'd been missing a few days.

Stiles tells himself maybe he hit his head, maybe he... maybe he was drugged, one way or the other, because, really, who loses months? But that can't be true. He remembers going to the Preserve, he remembers... well, that's about it. He remembers going home but it was the weekend and yet his dad says that he'll be able to go home tomorrow, on Wednesday. So. Yeah. Not making any sense.

They sedate him again. He doesn't want it but his dad says it's for his best, and the dosage for the lithium was specified by his therapist. Stiles can't really say anything considering he doesn't remember the past six months, so he just relaxes his right arm as much as he can with it still being strapped down, and closes his eyes as the medication goes in.

He falls asleep again, with the feeling of his dad's hand on the top of his head, finger against his brow.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up again, his throat feels thick, and he can't stop himself from blinking, and blinking, and blinking. His thought process feels like it's functioning at only half speed, that if he concentrates, he can feel the way each word is forming in his mind, each sentence coming together to form half a thought, three quarters of thought, but not really a full thought.

God, even his thoughts even sound like he's stoned.

He chuckles in the back of his throat, weirdly sounding, like it's not his voice, not his laughter. He swallows, blinks again and turns to look at his dad. He doesn't know how much they gave him, but holy cow, he hates lithium.

"Stiles?"

His dad. His dad, who hasn't left his side since he was admitted. His dad, who's holding onto his hand right now, even though it's still bound, will probably stay there until the doctor can make sure he won't be a threat to his own person. God, everything is so fucked up.

He closes his eyes again. It's pointless to keep them open, when all he wants is to close them all over again, when he just wants to crawl into his bed and pull the sheet over himself and pretend that this isn't happening, that whatever made him lose those months hasn't happened, that--

"John?"

He can feel his whole body tensing, holding himself still, not even breathing. He can't... he must have heard it wrong. Imagined it. It's the lithium, for sure. It can't be. He can't... he remembers and it just can't be.

For one fleeting second he thought he heard--

"John, God, I'm sorry. My phone was dead and I didn't--"

Stiles was sure he'd heard--

"Stiles, sweetie? Are you okay? John, what happened?"

He blinks, opens his eyes, half afraid. It can't be, it couldn't... it couldn't be--

He turns, and blinks, and there she is, standing by his side, reaching for him, for his face, palm soft and warm against his face. Her dark brown hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, half falling apart from the pencil holding it back. He shakes his head slightly, barely a movement, half afraid she'll pull away, stop touching him. God, it can't be, it can't. He takes in a shaky breath, chokes back a laugh on his throat because he can't help it, he can't stop himself from looking at her even as she asks him if he's alright, if he took his medication, and what exactly happened.

It's his mom and he can't stop staring at her.


	2. two

_I live in company with a body, a silent companion, exacting and eternal._  
\- Eugene Delacroix

 

Stiles thinks it's gotta be the lithium, or the antipsychotics that are probably still in his bloodstream, or whatever else they've pumped him full off, because the second he sees her, after his brain has started it's higher functions all over again, all he can think of is how her hair seems darker than he remembers. 

She's talking to him, asking him if he's doing okay and what happened and if his arm itches. He just looks at her. He can't stop looking at her.

His dad pulls back a bit and then it's his mom reaching for him, hand around his cheek and he can't help but lean into the touch, close his eyes and feel the tears falling down his cheeks.

"Aww, sweetie. It's okay. We know you didn't mean to. Everything's going to be okay. Don't worry."

He presses her hand between his cheek and his shoulder as much as he can and he wishes she'd never stop touching him, talking to him, standing just by his side, smelling like flowers and cinnamon.

She keeps reassuring him and all he can do is press his face tighter to her hand, hope that she doesn't pull away, wish that he had his hands free so he could cling to her the way he wants. She's not... he remembers, god, he fucking remembers sitting by her bedside as her smile turned grim and sad and painful, how she'd take his hand in between hers and tell him that everything was going to be alright even though they both knew it wasn't, that she was dying, and there was nothing they could do.

He remembers. How in the world--

He looks up at her and all he can say is, "how?"

He's dreaming. It's gotta be the pills and the lithium and everything else, god, they are fucking with his perception and he's hallucinating her and when he blinks again it's just going to be his dad sitting by his side and his mom will be gone again and all he wants to do is remember her smell, the warmth of her hands, the feel of her touch.

"It doesn't matter, sweetie. It's okay. We know it's not your fault. You just need--"

He shakes his head because he doesn't mean that, and god, he'd be hugging her if his fucking hands-- He fights the straps, moves around and tries to pull at them, but all that does is make his mom take a step back, surprised, and cringe and her eyes turn watery, shiny and bright. No, no, no, he doesn't-- He didn't mean--

"Mom--" The word catches in his throat. He just wants... he needs her-- "Mom, please, don't. Just... can you just--?"

"They are for your own good, Stiles, please--" His dad is reaching forward, and god, he loves his dad but he really needs, he really wants his mom.

"No, no, dad. Please. I just need. Just. Let me go. I'm not gonna do anything. I just want. Mom. _Please._ I just want--" He fights them again, the bonds, the straps, pushes against them, hands and feet, as if he were to pull hard enough he could get free, though it's a stupid thought. He pulls at them, watches his mom place her hand over her mouth, shake her head slightly. Her eyes fill with tears. "Mom, please. I just. _Mom._ I just need--"

He needs to hold her, touch her, God, he just wants to hug her for a second. If he's going to blink and she'll be gone, then he'll take what he can get, right here, right now.

"Stiles--"

"Dad, please!"

Somebody must have heard, gotten alerted somehow, because next thing he knows a nurse is walking into the room and asking his parents -- god, his parents! -- to take a step back.

"No, no, please. I'm not. I'm not doing anything. Please, I just want. I just need you to let me go, for like a second. I'm fine. I swear, I'm fine. I'm fine, please. Please!"

It doesn't matter what he tells the guy, because he isn't hearing him, doesn't care, he's just filling the syringe in his hand with something, plunging it into the inside of his right elbow, filling him with more medication that he doesn't need, that doesn't let him think.

"No, no, dad. Please. Please, don't let them. Please. _Mom, please._ "

It doesn't matter. His dad reaches for him, apologizes, his mom says that it's going to be okay, that everything will be okay, and next thing he knows, he's blinking, falling asleep.

*****

His parents drive him home the next morning, or what he guesses is the next morning, Stiles isn't sure. He blinks and one moment he's still in the hospital, and the next he's in his room. He doesn't remember going, or clinging to his mother the moment they let the straps off, but he must have. He can close his eyes and smell her perfume, feel her arms around him, the tightness of his hands on the back of her sweater.

He looks down at his hands, as he closes them into fists, opens them again. His left hand can only curl halfway there, hurting all the way down from his fingers to the inside of his elbow. He hisses at it, relaxes his hand. His leg has a bandage under his sweatpants and there are a couple of cuts above his eyebrow, but at least he didn't break his neck on the way down from the stairs, so that's good.

He blinks, eyes closed and opened, slowly, as if in sleep. It's the new dosage, his dad says, that his body should acclimate to it in a couple of weeks, but until then, he'll feel like this. Like he's sleepy all the time, like he wants to close his eyes and not open them. It's for the best, he says, they both say, but it doesn't feel like it.

His mom has work (she's working at the Arch Design office downtown, has been for a while, apparently; Stiles only remembers that she applied there, before -- before), so she hugs him and tells him that she'll be back before five, so he doesn't spend all day alone. He holds onto her a little bit longer, a little bit tighter, and when she lets go, he reaches out for her, hand on her wrist, presses his thumb against her pulse. It's freaking her out, he knows, he notices, but he can't really care. Let her think it's the medicine, what happened yesterday. He doesn't know what's going on, if he's really losing his mind or has already done so and is only now noticing, but he can't... he can't let her go again.

He goes through his computer, wants to check if everything is as he remembers it, and it's late in the afternoon when he hears his bedroom window being pushed open.

Scott climbs through it slowly, carefully, as if afraid of making a wrong move and ending up face first on the floor. Wouldn't be the first time, then again.

Scott places both feet on the floor and turns to Stiles, small smile on his face. "Hey."

Stiles can't help but smile back, because even if everything feels weird, if it feels like the very air is thick and dense and he's moving as if in slow motion, Scott is here and that makes it at least three times better.

"Dude, Stiles, what happened? You totally missed school!"

Stiles opens his mouth to explain, at least what little of what happens he remembers, or was told, when he notices that Scott is wheezing a little, is reaching into his sweatshirt pocket for his inhaler. Stiles watches in confusion as Scott presses the top and takes in a deep breath.

Asthma. Scott still has asthma. He didn't... He can't. He stopped having asthma when Peter bit him. What the hell?

"Scott?"

Scott turns to him, eyebrows drawn together, hand still around the inhaler. "What? Dude. And what happened to your arm?"

*****

Derek has his eyes closed, can hear the rest of the pack, once voice on top of the other, rising over one another, Scott pretty much screaming. He's not really paying attention, but knowing Scott, he's blaming Derek. No need, really, because Derek blames himself. Boyd answering back, probably pushing him back. And there goes Isaac, trying to keep the peace in between them. Erica answers scathingly, and Derek can only pinch the bridge of his nose.

"If we had just—"

"Just what, Scott, huh? Tell me." Erica, her voice going up and up. Any second now she's going to bring out the claws, if she hasn't already. "Tell me what we haven't done and we'll go do it right now!"

"Guys, come on--" That's Isaac. Like the middle child, like his brother Stephen, always trying to be the peacekeeper.

"If we had just--"

"What--?"

Can't they stop. Can't they just. Stop. Fuck.

"God, Scott, could you be any more of a self sanctimonious ass--"

"This is all your fault! He shouldn't have--"

"What?!"

"He's human!"

Derek snorts under his breath. Good going, Sherlock.

"Do you really think we don't fucking know that?!" Erica again. Claws already out, that's for sure.

"Well, it's not like--"

"Enough!"

At least, finally, the whole pack falls silent. Derek opens his eyes and turns to glare at them. He folds his arms over his chest, aiming for imposing and self-sufficient, but he's always thought he can't seem to be found a little short. 

"We've gone through the trail." From the Preserve to the Stilinski house, and back again, and back again, about five times, until their scent was even stronger than Stiles'. "We found nothing."

He doesn't say anything else because he thinks it'd be stupid to try and name everything they've done in the past three days they've known Stiles was missing. He thinks they've gone through every single place they could come up where they might find a scent that might lead them somewhere, anywhere.

The wolf disagrees. It thinks they shouldn't stand around, that they should search for what took what's theirs (Derek reminds it that Stiles' not theirs, Stiles' not even its). It wants nothing more than to claw what might try to come in their way.

Derek snorts at the wolf, glances at Scott, and the way he's holding himself tightly coiled, hands around opposite forearms. Scott's fingers have stayed human, but Derek thinks the way Scott's holding himself together, it might not for long. He knows Scott is feeling guilty and he's lashing out to appease himself. Derek knows, because he tends to do the same thing, has done the same thing, always, every time. He also knows that Scott's the only one that has spoken with the Sheriff about this, and Derek doesn't want to imagine that conversation.

And they don't have a single better lead than they had on Monday. Derek doesn't think the pack can take this much longer, knowing they are missing a pack mate, that it's somewhat their fault, and they can't do anything about it.

And even if they could, even Derek could take it for another day, the wolf just might not.

They need to do something else, something more.

Because the girl that went missing before Stiles, the teenage girl (sixteen, a classmate of Isaac from History, someone Isaac had never even given a second look before seeing her face in the newspaper) that was taken seven days ago was found dead this morning, at the edge of the Preserve.

It's Thursday. And Stiles has been missing for five days. 

Derek takes in a deep breath, closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, everyone is looking at him. He hopes he's making the right call. "We need to talk to Deaton again."

****

"What, what do you mean, what? You're a werewolf, Scott! You're a werewolf!"

"Stiles--"

Stiles' shaking his head, flailing hands. "No, no, listen to me. Listen to me!"

"Stiles!"

"Listen to me!!" Stiles takes a step forward and then he's tripping on something (a shoe, probably, god knows what's on his floor). He tries to stay upright and Scott's reaching to him, but he's slow, too slow. He's human slow. Stiles trips again against something, and then he's crashing, half on the floor and half on the bed, chest first.

His left hand is hurting where he hit it against the side of the bed, but Scott looks pained, worried, reaching for him but getting nothing but air. Because he's human.

"Stiles. You're talking about werewolves again?" Scott looks pained, like Stiles is doing something, like Stiles is the one that has changed all the rules on him, like Stiles is the one that has changed. "Are you taking your medication?"

"What?" Stiles blinks at Scott, shakes his head and stands up, pointing at Scott with his right hand, index finger extender, poking his best friend in his chest. "No, no, dude. Just. No. You. It's you the one that's all... wrong! You're all wrong!"

"You always get like this when you're not taking your meds. Is that it? Is that why you have a cast in your arm and you didn't go to school today?" Scott leans forward, closer to Stiles, and glances to the side, toward the door. "Does your dad know that you skipped school?"

"Scott, no, no. That's not. That's not it at all. That's--"

"You can't keep doing this," Scott says, sounding frustrated and angry, hurt, like somehow this is all Stiles fault, even as he walks into Stiles' adjoining bathroom. Stiles just stands there, hears Scott looking for something and then he's coming back, orange bottle of pills in one hand. He thrusts it at Stiles. "Here. You need to take them. You can't just stop taking them because you're feeling better. You know that."

"They are changing my prescription," Stiles says, stunned. He takes the pill bottle from Scott, looking down at it. And there it says, on plain black on white background Clozaphine, _Żaklina Genim Stilinski, age 16_ , filled on March of 2013. He blinks down at it, before glancing up to look at Scott. "This bottle is mine."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Yes, your bottle. Of medicine. Which you have to take twice a day. Forever." Scott bites his lower lip, glances down at his hand, where he's holding his inhaler. "It's not the end of the world, you know?" 

Stiles feels guilty, because that's not what he meant. It's not that he thinks he's better than that, than taking medicine for something, better than Scott or whatever it is he's thinking. It's just that he doesn't need to. Didn't need to? Has never needed to?

He shakes his head, opens the bottle and counts the pills. There are only eight pills inside. "They said... they said my medication. That it was messing with my depth perception?"

"Oh." Scott looks guilty now, pocketing his inhaler once again. "Then what happened? And why are you in a cast?"

Stiles looks down at his left hand. He'd almost forgotten that it was hurting. He flexes his fingers, cringing as he does so. At least his left leg isn't hurting. "I tripped. Down the stairs."

"What? How?"

Stiles doesn't tell him. Because his medicine was messing him up sounds lame, and stupid. And he doesn't believe it, but it's the truth. Must be. Because his dad told him so. "I... I don't know. I don't remember. But they are changing my prescription."

His dad already filled the new pad, something new, another name. He thinks it's Risperidone but he can't be sure. 

"But you're okay, right? I mean, you'll go to school tomorrow?"

Stiles blinks, looks up at Scott. He nods. Truth is he doesn't know, but he can't say that right now. Nothing's making sense. His dad. His mom. Even Scott. But he can't. He can't tell them. Not yet. They'll think he's insane.

"Scott, I'm sorry. But. I'm really tired. And they said I should--"

Scott nods, accommodating all at once, and Stiles hates to use his best friend's nature against himself, but he can't do this right now. Not with Scott right here. "Sure, yeah. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Maybe? Perhaps? Who the hell knows? Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow and he'll be the werewolf. God the hell knows.

"Sure," Stiles says, smiles, even though it feels a little forced on his lips. But Scott has never been the most perceptive person in the room.

Scott smiles back, a little bit relieved, a lot happy. "Good. I'll lend you my notes tomorrow."

Stiles snorts. Scott's hand writing is for crap. Stiles could never read his notes for school. Not even when they were in elementary school and they were supposed to write all nice and pretty for the teacher. "No, thank you. I'll ask someone else."

Scott laughs, runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

Scott makes his way to the window, but Stiles stops him with a hand to his shoulder. He could trip, fall down and break his very human, very squishable neck. No, thank you. "Take the stairs, will you?"

Scott grins. "Sure." He nudges Stiles, shoulder against shoulder. They've always done this, and it's never bothered Stiles, but then Scott turned wolfy and wolfy strength meant that each time they did this, two out of three, Stiles ended up either on the floor or against a wall. So he doesn't miss that. Unless. Well, unless that never happened. 

Stiles stands in the doorway, watches Scott make his way down the hallway and down the stairs. He can hear the front door opening and closing. He can't hear the bike starting, but maybe that's because he has human ears.

He sighs, closing his eyes as he does so, hand gripping the edge of the door. This isn't happening. This can't. Something's wrong. Something totally and incredibly wrong. Because he isn't... he woke up and he's not... and his mom is there and Scott is human and he's on medication and his left hand is hurting like hell and. And he can feel his chest tight, his throat closing, his fingers going numb, and it's not the last time he's felt like this, like his world is crumbling down around him and he can't breathe. 

He takes in a shaky breath, too shallow to really count, his chest still tight, his neck burning up. He takes in another breath, and another, and holds it. He has to calm down. He knows from experience that if he doesn't try to cut it down at the knees it will only went worse, the feedback loop the beginning of the end. After a second he lets it go and then he takes in another breath, and can feel it being deeper, not as tight.

Stiles doesn't know how long he stands there, breathing, hand around the edge of the door and forehead against the wood. By the time he can take in a breath without it catching in his throat, he's pushing himself off the door and going down the hallway, and down the stairs, to his father's office. He knows where his father keeps all the important papers. Anything from his hospital visits have to be there.

*****

Stiles goes over his medical record, page by page, doctor's scribbles a few notes written down in the margins. There're even more notes about his behavior, probably given to his dad by his therapist (and he knows he shouldn't be reading it, but truth is that he couldn't care less). Then there're his dad's notes, written in a notepad, written sideways, like his dad was talking to the guy on the phone and just picked up the first blank page he found, and wrote on it, almost upside down.

He doesn't think about how his dad's office isn't like it should be, a little bit disorganized, and with a bit of clutter in the corner by the side of the bookshelf. Instead it has a vase of flowers in the corner (even if they are plastic, they are still very nice and not something his dad would ever buy for the house), and there's a picture of the three of them (Stiles, circa fourteen years old) on the desk, and the file cabinet isn't in the corner, but by the side of the desk.

He doesn't know if the reason his dad has all his papers is because he really should have them, or he somehow appropriated them from the hospital. It doesn't matter. It says there, clear as day, that by the time he was thirteen he was past the ADD medication and in need or more "specialized" personnel and examination. God knows how he ended up going to a therapist who recommended a psychiatrist and ended up with yet another therapist who is actually a certified psychiatrist. 

By the time he was fifteen he was already on antipsychotics. Google teaches him that he had what was diagnosed as early onset schizophrenia. The symptoms were point-blank and could define him to a T. 

Things he'd always thought were because of his ADD, that the Adderall could fix,

_disorganized speech, which is often seen as an inability to maintain a conversation, usually as a result of difficulty staying on topic_

but apparently his childhood counselor had been wrong, so, so very wrong. There were other things as well, things he couldn't remember, no matter how hard he--

_delusions, which are firm beliefs that are out of touch with reality_

tried. There were more notes on his first psychiatrist (around age fourteen) that said, plain and simple, that he believed that werewolves were real, and they lived in his town. That his best friend had been bitten and turned, and that there were people (called hunters) looking for them--

_hallucinations, usually voices which are critical or threatening, including the fear of people watching, harassing or plotting against the individual_

to kill them. It was this make believe world that had convinced Stiles' doctor to start on the medication. They started with the first set of antipsychotics about a year ago.

He can feel his throat tight even as he keeps on reading, because that's not him. That can't be him. He knows what he's seen, what he's lived. He knows and yet. And yet--

_some children engage in activities such as flapping the arms or rocking, and may appear anxious, confused, or disruptive on a regular basis_

it's like reading about himself on those pages, on medical journals and PhD explanations, on doctors' forums and patients retelling of stories about their children, or themselves as children. 

Stiles thinks back, as much as he can. About him being ten, twelve, thirteen. He remembers Scott's twelfth birthday party and how it had sucked so much. Scott's dad had left about three years ago, but the guy was kinda trying, getting weekends with Scott every other month. But by Scott's twelfth birthday, he hadn't seen his dad in almost eight months. The guy was supposed to be at the party, and he wasn't, and he didn't call, and when Mrs. McCall tried calling no one would pick up, and Scott and Stiles were left there, in the living room, watching movies and hearing Scott's mom ranting with Stiles' dad in the kitchen.

But maybe all that was his imagination. All that... because there are picture of his parents, of both of them, with him, in his computer. Of vacations they never took, of trips they never went on. There are entire folders called things like _mom's birthday 2009_ and _Newport Summer 2008_ and there are his parents, smiling like it's going out of style. His mom posing in a one piece bathing suit that makes her look younger than she should be; his dad on his back with a beer by his side, half asleep. And Stiles under an umbrella with what looks like a whole coat of paint but it's probably only sun block.

He doesn't remember any of it. But he also doesn't remember being fourteen and starting to see werewolves for the first time. He doesn't remember telling his dad in the middle of the night how Scott had been bitten and his dad thinking it had been a dog and Stiles telling him it had been a werewolf and how Scott --

_children may experience symptoms such as hallucinations, but these are often difficult to differentiate from just normal imagination or child play_

had tried to kill him on the full moon. It made no sense. That's not how it happened! Scott had been sixteen and it had been Peter that bit him and it had been Stiles' fault for going to the Preserve looking for Laura Hale's dead half body.

He doesn't remember any of it. But for this to work, for this to make sense, he had to be thinking this for years, going to his psychiatrist for almost a year before--

_for an accurate diagnosis, the symptoms must be present and persistent for at least six months_

they ended up putting him on more medication.

Stiles can't breathe after he's read it all, his right hand shaking and his left hand throbbing as an echo of his own racing pulse. 

Stiles can feel himself torn, pulled in too many directions without knowing which one is up or down, right or wrong. He can't... he can't have forgotten everything, can he? That makes no sense. He knows hallucinations are one thing, delusions as well, but to believe... to believe he lived all these years-- five years in total, since his mom died-- His mom died! He can't have hallucinated that, can he? That makes no sense. That's the point of divergence that he can find. The one thing that is too tangible to refute.

His mom is here, alive, with him. He saw his mom not six hours ago before she went to work. That's real.

Which means that the rest of it all... isn't.

He closes his eyes, places both hands over his face, hiding himself. It makes no sense, even as he opens his mouth and screams, biting on the heel of his palms to keep himself from sobbing outright. It makes no sense, god, but it's gotta be true. He just... he just thought his life was another one. Maybe as a result of his last set of medication. Maybe... maybe he's the one that's been wrong all this time.

Medication. It's the medication. It was the Clozaphine, probably, doing more harm than not. That makes sense. That can work.

He doesn't even want to think about what he's learned about the medication. The so-called atypical antipsychotics, the new branch of miracle pills. He doesn't want to consider the side effects that have to be "managed" and "handled carefully", or the ones that are permanent.

They range from the ones that one can handle, probably, maybe, like blurred vision, rapid heartbeat, or sensitivity to the sun and skin rashes. To the ones that sound plain weird, like major weight gain and changes in a person's metabolism, including the risk of getting diabetes and high cholesterol. The more impressive ones: motor problems, rigidity, persistent muscle spasms, and restlessness. To the fucked up ones, the long term use ones, like tardive dyskinesia. Which is just a way to say muscle movements you can't control, either in the mouth or arms, from very mild to severe.

He can feel his eyes watering, tears falling down his cheeks and he thinks, oh, fuck it, it's the medication. Whatever the fuck is wrong with him, whatever he can't understand or can't handle, guess what, it's the fucking medication.

He's crying by the end of it, sobbing into his hands, biting into the heel of his palm like that's going to help any. Stiles cries and he's not even thinking about how he can't even fucking drive until he's adjusted to his new fucking prescription.

*****

"Ahhhh.... hmmm."

Derek presses his lips together, taking in a deep breath through his nose, and holding it in. The back room of the vet's office isn't big in itself, but with five people and Deaton, it feels smaller somehow. Oppressing.

"Oh. Yes. Certainly."

He can hear the heartbeat of his betas, Isaac shifting from one foot to the other, feel Scott's escalating frustration, even as Deaton went over the information Scott had been able to gather (steal, more like it) from the Sheriff's home office about the girl found this morning. That included the coroner's office report, which Deaton's going over at the moment.

"Ohhh."

Derek closes his eyes for a second, claws elongating before folding both hands into fists. The pain from his pierced skin is enough to keep him focused, keep him calm enough that he doesn't demand answer from the man. He knows it won't help their case, that it'll only spur him on. And Deaton can be mystical enough as it is, with deeply veiled answers under all the bullshit the man can sprout.

Ahhhh. Yes."

But if he says one more ahhh or ohhh, Derek is sure--

"Do you recognize it?"

Derek can't help but open his eyes and smirk as he hears Scott finally voice the same thing he's been biting on his tongue.

Deaton looks up from the files spread on the metal table, giving Scott a pleased and almost peaceful smile. Derek clenches his right hand tighter. 

"I have an idea, yes."

Derek lifts an eyebrow, hoping to convey what he's trying himself not to scream. What the hell took Stiles? How can we find them? Where could we find him? Where is Stiles, damn it?

Deaton turns to look at Derek, tilting his head to the side slightly. "You might even be familiar with them, Derek."

Derek frowns, taken back. No. He's gone over everything they know (what little that is, even including the police report), and nothing had sounded familiar. He would have-- 

Deaton must see the confusion in his face, because he nods. "Yes. Perhaps difficult to separate the real information from what amounts to horror stories told around a bonfire." Deaton picks up one of the photos, the one taken of the girl, probably before she was opened for the autopsy. He shows it to Derek. "But not impossible."

Derek takes a step forward, suddenly sick of it. If whatever took that girl, took Stiles, follows the same pattern, Stiles doesn't have more than a day, maybe two, and they sure as fuck don't have the time to try and parse whatever the hell Deaton is trying to say. 

"Stop with the mystical crap." He grips the edge of the examination table, biting the words that want to follow the ones he couldn't stop.

Deaton smiles at Derek patronizingly, like a dog that just peed on the carpet even though he should know better. "Djinns."

"What?" No. That makes no sense. Those were just stories. Horror stories. Made up by his older cousins. Unless...

"What?" Scott asks the question, turning between Deaton and Derek, even as Derek tries to bring to mind scenes from his childhood that he's tried so hard to forget in the last six and a half years.

"What's a djinn?" Isaac, even though he's asking the same thing Erica and Boyd have to be asking themselves.

Because all stories have to come from somewhere, and apparently, even the worse of horror stories, are born in the truth.

*****

Stiles pretends he's fine, that he's not freaking out from the inside out, clings to his mom a second too long, a bit too tight, and at least he doesn't have to pretend that. He helps her with dinner -- impossible not to, considering he's been making dinner alone for the past five years -- and can't help but smile when he realizes his fridge is still filled with turkey bacon and venison and low fat everything and the reddest meat he can find inside is buffalo, of which he's read tons of articles about how it's way better than beef, so, great.

His dad asks him if he's handling the change on medication okay, as they sit down for dinner -- and he's also surprised that his dad isn't on the night shift, at least for the rest of this month. Stiles smiles, nods, says that he's okay, doesn't feel anything weird. Which is total bullshit because it feels like he's barely tethered here, in this world, in this place. That he's falling apart at the seams, like his skin is too tight, and not tight enough. That he's barely breathing and then breathing too fast. It feels like he's one wrong movement away from a panic attack, all the time, always.

He can't drive, not until he's "adjusted" to the medication, so his mom drives him to school. He thinks he should be bothered by it, embarrassed, but he barely manages not to clutch her hand all the way over there. He hugs her goodbye, tight, arms around her neck, around her back, taking in a deep breath of her perfume and her natural smell. She laughs, because she always used to laugh when he'd hug her, like he was making her too happy not to laugh. He holds her tighter for a second, pulls back and kisses her cheek, unable to stop himself from doing so, not even wanting to.

He tries to go about his day as naturally as possible, or at least as naturally as he can imagine, as he thinks he used to have. He meets Scott before class outside the school, talk about the day before, the day Stiles missed. He smiles when he has to, even though he feels anything but it.

He stares out the window during AP History, can't concentrate, can't even hear a word the teacher is saying. Instead, he stares down at his hand, his right hand, and how it... twitches, might be the word. It doesn't shake, but he thinks he can feel the start of tremors inside, deep, taking root in the bone, in the marrow.

He closes his hand down to a fist, takes in a deep breath before he ends up with a panic attack. He knows he's just imagining, that it's all in his head, he knows that's not the way the medicine works, but god, he can almost feel it starting inside of him. Taking hold.

He pretends to pay attention at Chem, if only because Harris keeps calling out his name. He glances at his side, where Danny and Jackson are sitting together, talking low, laughing at something, someone probably, someone that isn't him because he doesn't even appear on their radar.

In the hallway he sees Lydia, ignoring him like he doesn't exist, like she didn't go with him to the prom, like he didn't hold her even as she bleed to death. There's Allison, talking with Lydia, smiling at her. Allison doesn't even know they exist, which should be a surprise and yet isn't, and as Stiles glances over his shoulder, Scott is staring at her, like if he looks at her hard enough, she'll talk with him out of sheer will alone. 

It's all wrong, he knows, he thinks he knows, at least. It's all wrong, and it feels wrong and it smells wrong, even though he's not the one with the werewolf senses.

He sees Boyd at lunch, sitting at his table, alone. He runs into Erica in AP Calc and her hair is a mess, falling over her face as she takes her notes, biting on the top of her pen as she does so. 

His hand itches, left one because of the cast, and right now because of everything inside, waiting for the right moment to get out. He swallows everything he wants to say, closes his eyes shut and pretends to hear what the teacher is saying.

He doesn't play Lacrosse, not even on the bench, because of the Adderall and the antipsychotics and everything. But Scott does. Warms the bench, that is. So Stiles sits with him on the bleachers, waiting for a moment when Scott will play, which is never. 

Isaac plays, though. He's not first line but he's good enough to be training with the second string. He pushes against Jackson and though he's taller than Jackson, Jackson has about twenty pounds on Isaac. Isaac goes to the ground. He shakes it off, stands up, and when he takes off his helmet, there's a bruise already yellow on one cheekbone, a cut above his right eye. They have to be at least a week old, maybe even more.

Stiles feels his heart going a mile a minute, but it doesn't matter, because it's not like anyone can hear it.

Scott asks him a question and he answers, he thinks, he's not sure. Isaac smiles at Jackson, waves it off, it was nothing. Stiles closes his hands into a fist, but says nothing. What's one more bruise on him, right? God.

He looks down at his hands, where his fingers are twined around one another tightly. He doesn't hear what Scott says after that. All he can think of, in that moment, is Derek.

*****

After school, Stiles has an appointment with his psychiatrist. He only knows because Scott asked him, between Chem and History, if they're meeting at his house after Stiles' doctor's appointment and Scott's lacrosse practice, as usual, or if Stiles'd rather do it through Skype.

He calls his mom, the one person he wants to talk to, almost every hour, keep close in case she might disappear if she stands too far away. She tells him not to worry, that she's driving him over there (because he can't drive, even something as simple and constant as that, he can't do) and then his dad should be picking him up.

Stiles clings to her again, before he even undoes his seatbelt, arm around her shoulders, the other hand holding tight onto her blouse. She laughs, carefree and happy, hugging him back, tilting her head so she can kiss the side of his face.

"Aw, sweetie. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay. You'll see. It's just--"

The medication, yes, he knows, and yet he can't let go of her. He only presses his face tighter against the hollow of her neck, the silk of her blouse making his nose itch as he takes in a deep breath, trying to commit to memory the smell of her perfume. 

She laughs again, kisses him one more time. "You're gonna have to let me go, Stiles."

"I don't wanna," he can't help but say, hold her tighter, closer. He can feel his eyes stinging, the seatbelt cutting against his collarbone.

She doesn't laugh this time, but holds him back just as tight, kisses the side of his face, his hair, his ear, his cheek. Her hands move to his shoulders, and pushes him back enough to look at his face. He can feel the tears on his eyes, down his cheeks. But he smiles at her when she places a kiss on his nose, like she used to do when he was really little. 

"Żaklina, everything's gonna be alright. We're gonna get through this. The three of us, as a family."

Stiles nods, swallowing as he does so. He doesn't tell her how he doesn't believe her, how he dreamt (hallucinated?) that she'd died, so long ago, that she'd left them, his dad and him. He doesn't tell her how much he's missed her.

He only nods again, looking at her face, the cheekbones he has from her, the color of her eyes and the way her eyes wrinkle when she smiles. He looks so much like her, like her in that moment, smiling at him with nothing but hope in her eyes. Stiles looks so much like her, that the wonders if this is the hallucination, her with him, in this moment. If this is part of his disease, of his medication. If she is the one in his mind, and not them, the other world he had dreamt?

He hugs her one last time, one more time (and he wonders how long he'll keep thinking about it as one last time) before letting her go and making his way to the seventh floor of the building he was left at, where his psychiatrist's office reside.

He sits in the waiting room as the secretary (her name is Laura and she has dark long hair that falls to her shoulders, and she smiles at him and asks him about his cast) tells him that Dr. Jackson will see him after this patient.

Stiles sits in the small waiting room, phone out and bugging Scott, who's still warming the bench. At least Finstock isn't telling Scott to put his phone away.

He waits five more minutes before the patient before him leaves, and Stiles watches him with a frown in his face. Stiles thinks he recognizes the guy, from somewhere, with his dark hair and dark eyes, upturn nose. He looks older (early thirties?), as he puts on his leather jacket. The guy glances at him, gives him a lecherous smile and a wink before walking out of the office.

Stiles blinks, jerking back at the guy. He can feel the beginning of a headache in between his eyes, his throat dry. He rubs his left eye with his right fist.

Laura tells him he can go in now, tells him that with a smile on her lips. Her eyes are a very beautiful, dark, hazel green color.

The office isn't very big, only large enough for a desk, a book case, a large couch and an armchair around a coffee table. The doctor (Jonathan Jackson, Scott said, but prefers to be called JJ) smiles at him, signals him to take a seat on the couch. He has short brown hair, almost military short, and thin glasses that he picks up from the desk. JJ has the bluest eyes Stiles has ever seen. Under the afternoon light from the wide open window, they almost glow.

Stiles takes a seat on the corner of the couch, opposite the armchair. It feels right, like he's been here before. Like he's lived this before.

"Stiles, how's your arm?"

Stiles frowns, looking down at his cast and the few signatures he has (he has Scott's, and his mom dad's, and he signed it himself because he was bored), and shrugs. It doesn't ache, not as much as it did a couple of days ago, when he broke it. His right hand shakes sometimes, but he knows it's the medication, settling him, or it should be. 

Stiles settles on the couch, turns around enough that his back is half against the back of the couch, and the other half against the armrest. He picks at the inside seams of his jeans, doesn't know if he's supposed to be talking or just waiting for JJ to--

"How's the new medication?"

He shrugs, head down. His left hand folds into a fist, and his fingers don't hurt, but somewhere inside his arm does. His mom said it was a clean break, that it shouldn't take longer than six weeks to heal. He touches the cast with his right index, fingertips against the plaster. Radius, ulna, and he broke his radius. It could have been worse, his dad said with a sad smile on his face, he could have broken them both, needed surgery. It could have been so much worse.

Stiles doesn't want to think about the much worse scenario.

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinks, looking up at JJ. JJ, sitting down in the armchair, glasses perched on his nose. He looks at Stiles, he thinks, encouragingly. Friendly. God knows what else. Like Stiles should feel comfortable enough to open his mouth and share with him all his secrets. Which doesn't make sense, because Stiles doesn't know him, has never met him, and yet he's been seeing him for the past, what, three years? Something like that. Twice a week for the past three years, Christ.

"Stiles, you n--"

"How long is gonna take to settle the new medication?"

JJ narrows his eyes, giving him a sideways look. Like he knows what Stiles is doing, like he knows him enough to know him that well. Stiles doesn't want to think about that either.

"We can't know for sure, not for at least four or six months." JJ pauses, looks at him for a moment before adding, "You know that."

Stiles doesn't say anything to that. He's lived that, and yet, no, he doesn't know that.

JJ tilts his head for a second. His eyes are so very blue behind his glasses. "How's school?"

Stiles shrugs, doesn't know what to say. He didn't pay much attention to AP History, because he spent most of it looking at Erica, trying to notice everything that was different, that felt wrong. There were too many to number. The rest of his classes were the same thing. It feels like he hasn't quite lived this week, and he hates that feeling even more.

"What have you being seeing, Stiles?"

Stiles blinks, taken back. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, his left hand falling into a fist even as his fingers burn slightly from the pain of doing so. That guy has no way of knowing--

"Have you been seeing werewolves again?" JJ's eyes narrowing at him again, like he'd done this before. "Have you actually been taking your medication?"

"I have," Stiles says, only half a lie, because he had been. He took yesterday's dose because his mom came into his room after dinner, with a glass of water and his just filled prescription. She'd stood there, by his side as he took the glass and the pill, and then she'd bent over at her waist so she could hug him to her side and kiss his cheek, the top of his head. 

He was supposed to take it three times a day, with breakfast, after lunch and then with dinner. He was supposed to. He'd taken this morning's, but not the one at lunch, because he'd been with Scott there, sitting at their lunch table, just the two of them. The two of them, alone, when he should have been sandwiched between Erica and Isaac, Boyd on the other side of the table, by Scott and Allison's side. Isaac always prefers to sit by his side because as human, he's the one that smells less of pack out all of them. Isaac always likes to scent mark him during lunch, when no one is paying attention.

So Stiles had sat there, pathetically alone when he should have been with his friends, with his pack. And he hadn't taken the bottle out of his backpack. He just couldn't.

"But you're seeing werewolves again, aren't you?" JJ leans forward in his seat, hands folded in between his knees. Stiles stares at him, and JJ gives him a curl of his lips. "What have you been seeing?"

"I don't--"

JJ tilts his head to the side. There's a tiredness around his eyes, a pinched look on his lips. And Stiles knows they've gone over this, over and over again.

Stiles takes in a deep breath, his face crumbling as he thinks about Scott and his asthma, and Erica not looking at them and Isaac with bruises and-- Stiles laughs, a broken sound, his throat tight.

"I'm really, really not," Stiles says through clenched teeth. This time, he isn't lying.

They don't speak for a moment, a second, and Stiles can still hear his heartbeat racing and his hands sweating and his left hand arm hurts, pounds, in the same beta of his heart.

"Good," JJ says, finally, leaning back in his chair. "You are taking your medication."

Stiles doesn't answer that.

*****

His dad picks him up, tells Stiles that his mom called and they are having stir fry for dinner and maybe they could stop and get pie? He's smiling, his dad, and Stiles can't help but nod and feel his chest tighten and pretend that this is a normal day, any other day, when all he wants to do is hug his dad until everything makes sense.

Stiles gets dropped off at home, his dad reaching out and placing his hand on Stiles' shoulder, where it meets his neck. "You're a good kid," his dad says, and all Stiles can do is nod.

Stiles has two messages from Scott, but he can't focus on homework right now, he wouldn't know even where to begin. So Stiles texts him that he's not feeling okay, that maybe they can do it tomorrow? He doesn't wait for an answer. 

Instead, he reaches for his laptop and opens google. There's one thing that's been bugging him, that he can't stop thinking about. Blue eyes. Blue glowing eyes, that then turned red and Stiles has no idea, he has no idea why he didn't start with this. He has to help. If there is one person that can help Stiles make sense of this, it's gotta be--

He types fast, not really thinking about it, before hitting enter. For a second he blinks, because it doesn't make sense. Out of everything, this is the one thing that makes less sense. And then he's clicking on the links and reading and breathing harshly through his mouth. He doesn't realize he's crying until--

_Beacon Hills house fire kills nine people--_

_house fire kills three adults and six children--_

_killed eight people in basement that only had one exit--_

_five of the victims of the Thursday night blaze were children, including a 3-year-old who was cradled in the arms of another victim, authorities said--_

_the injured survivor described standing in the shower in hopes of--_

_Olivia Hale, 32, wife of Peter Hale, 36, and mother of Elizabeth, 3, was the sole survivor--_

_firefighters arrived within 3 minutes and it took them 45 minutes to bring the fire under control_

\--he can't read anymore, and he rubs his eyes with the back of his hoodie, red turning into the color of dried up blood.

He clicks links until he can find the names of all the victims, and he shouldn't be surprised, only he is. All five children of Talia and Kevin Hale died in the fire: Laura, Stephen, Matthew, Derek and Cora. None of them survived. Not Laura nor Derek. Not even Peter. Only Peter's wife-- Stiles never even knew her name, or the name of their daughter, Elizabeth. She was only three. In another article, he reads that she died in Derek's arms.

He doesn't stop crying until his mom knocks on his bedroom door, calling him for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has to get worse before it gets better? I know, I'm sorry. I kinda am?
> 
> Also, for those of you who are interested, JJ looks just like Daniel Jackson from Stargate SG-1. With the glasses and stuff. That's the idea I have. *g*


End file.
